


Split World- An AU of the Boy Meets Boy Universe

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Category: Boy Meets Boy (Comic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-20
Updated: 2001-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would have happened if Cyanide had lived just a few more houses away and been redistricted so that he never met Skids and Harley?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wait, Cold, Warm, Found.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted as many stories. Boy Meets Boy was only my second fandom and I hadn't yet discovered the joy of editing. Please excuse the errors.   
> Also, if you're reading this and you remember me from those days, why not drop a line? I loved being in such a small, intimate fandom and I miss you all!

Torres stood on the corner, contemplating smoking. He wasn't a smoker, it just suddenly seemed like a really good idea. As if it would somehow clear his head or at the very least make him think about something else. Instead of how he had been standing here for a half hour. Doing what he always did. Choose a direction, drive for twenty minutes, park in the next space to come along, get out and stand at the nearest corner. Waiting. For what he didn't know. Didn't even fucking believe in fate, but here he was.

It started in middle school with hormones. This vague off feeling, that something was horribly wrong. Somehow his life zagged where it should have zigged, became X when it should have been Y. The feeling grew as he got older and stopped hanging out with Jeff as much. Jeff. His best friend, sometimes it seemed his only friend. That sense of wrongness had clung to him.

University had helped some. He knew what he wanted to do. Chemistry was rapidly becoming his life and working as a graduate assistant he was motoring through his education. One day, in the world of science, Torres would be somebody. Right now, though. Right now he was still lost. Standing on a street corner. Waiting.

A sudden blast of warmth and music takes him by surprise. A rectangle of light shows him a bar. The men kissing by the entrance and laughing shows him what type. Would just turn around and walk away, but the cold has gotten into him and he's not ready to call it a night.

Lifts up his head and saunters in, his best 'I-belong-here' look on his face. Settles at the bar. Better to wait in the warmth with a draft in his left hand and the idea of a cigarette in his right.

()()

Another splatter of paint didn't make the least bit of difference. The damn thing was ugly and that was all there was to it. No amount of glitter could fix it, nothing in his soul was on the canvas, therefore it was worthless. He considered, briefly, burning it, but decided he didn't want to find out if the fumes could kill you. Instead, he just left it and slunk away like a thief. Settled onto the couch. Wondered if another sweater would warm him up, but knew instinctively that the cold went deeper then any wool or cotton could fix.

Long ago, he had stopped asking himself what he was doing with his life. He was painting. Inspiration would occasionally strike and then he was ready. Someday he would sell a few paintings. Until then he was usually happy enough staying to himself and cultivating a persona. The recluse artiste.

Yet, somehow he thinks, not tonight. Tonight, he picks up his jacket and leaves the chill of his own apartment for the greater chill of the world outside. Walks along the pavement in one of those curiously oversensitive moods. He can feel every footstep on the pavement, his hand moves as if oiled. Let's the rhythmic movement of his own body carry him forward, until he surprises himself by reaching his destination. It's one of the last flashy clubs. He comes here when being alone is to much to take anymore and he wants someone to wipe the frost from his bones.

The bar isn't crowded and he tries to remember what day it is. Fails. That's another of the downsides of the life he's chosen: Time slips away from him. He can vaguely remember paying the rent last Friday, but that was what? three, four days ago? Usually this loss didn't bothor him, but tonight it rankled. Like it was important.

Shaking off the feeling, he slid onto a bar stool without looking around him. Orders a beer and while the bartender's filling it he glances out of his peripheral vision. The left side is empty. The right....

The first impression is bad. Ungainly, slumped, punk, tired, worn, tattooed and pierced. The beer is handed over and he looks again, second impression is better. He can see the beauty of the boy/man. The dark skin is appealing in it's own right and it stretches across well toned muscles. The tattoos aren't flaming skulls, but DNA strands. The long black hair clung forlornly to a handsome face, masking it. Eyes slid down the lean back. Cargo pants riding low without showing anything, a miracle Mik can't hope to understand.

"You can look all you like. All that careful peeking might strain an eye muscle."

Mik's surprised enough that he almost fell off the chair. The voice matches the body. Low, warm, but faintly scratched from fatigue.

"Sorry...I was just...." Doing exactly what he had been accused of. The punk shrugged. He could feel his cheeks begin to redden.

"It's all right. Flattering actually. I'm not here for action. Just came in out of the cold."

"Uhhh... You do know what this place is don't you? You can't really come in here" looking like you do, Mik wanted to add, but didn't, "and expect not to get hit on."

"I wasn't really thinking about it." The punk sipped from his glass. "Just seemed like the thing to do."

"I'm Mikhael." He said suddenly, sticking out a hand, now surprising himself. Names usually weren't a part of the deal, but the punk had made it quite clear that he wasn't interested.

"Torres." He reached out to take Mik's hand. The feel of the Russian's hand on his sent a blue shock to his brain.

"Are you sure we haven't met before?" Mik asked suddenly.

"I...I don't think so." They sat for a moment, looking confused at each other.

"I think I need another drink. You?"

"Yeah might as well."

They started talking again. Slowly at first then gaining momentum like two sleepers who had finally come out of dreamland to discover life again. The night passed quickly around them as they talked, weaving the stories of their lives. They agreed on next to nothing.

"How can you say that! Dios..."

"How can you not believe it? It's proven....."

On and on until the bartender woke them up.

"I'm sorry gentleman, but we're closing."

Mik fumbled for his wallet and laid down enough money to cover both of their last drinks. Together they stumbled out into the predawn air, feeling the stain of the all nighter on their skin. Half-sweaty, muzzy and a little buzzed from the three or four drinks they'd each had.

"Do you want a lift to your place?" Torres asked, finally.

"I'd like to walk actually." Mik paused, looking down at the Latino twenty something, felt all at once out of his depth, "You could crash at my place, if you'd like. I have a pull out sofa bed in the living room." Not that'd he'd ever used it.

Torres looked at him for a long moment, evaluating his own ability to drive. He wasn't expected anywhere. His mother no longer waited up for him to come home. She respected that he was only still at home to save money for graduate school and treated his continuing residence more like a landlord then a mother.

"All right."

In contrast to their earlier loquaciousness, the walk was silent. The cold so absolute and clear, that they began to sober up, watching long puffs of breath solidify and then disperse in the air. The sidewalks were virtually empty of life; they could have been the last people left alive on earth. Only the sounds of breathing, shoes on sidewalk and the occasional passing car filled the silence, but somehow even they could not dispel the quiet as if these small noises only added to texture.

"Here." Mikhael said, almost whispering. Torres watched him, brown eyes sparkling in keen interest as he unlocked the door and led the way his apartment.

It was everything Torres would have expected of the Russian's home, had he thought about it. Clean Bachelor style: everything in place, but empty. There were a lot of books and some records. Mik dropped his jacket on a chair next to the door, gesturing for his companion to do the same. He then turned his attention to pulling out the couch, finding sheets and finding blankets. Since there was little Torres could do to assist in all this, he was content to watch.

He watched the muscles playing beneath pale skin. Watched the look of concentration over take the well made face as it pondered the whereabouts of a rogue pillow. Saw, without quite willing it, the loneliness of the apartment that radiated from it's resident. Felt, without wanting to, his own responding quest for companionship.

"It should be comfortable enough." Mik was talking to him, so he nodded. The Russian stood awkwardly for a minute. "I'm sorry....this is going to sound stupid, but what day is it?"

"September 22. It's Tuesday." Torres watched Mik's face for a minute, but the Russian wasn't giving away any secrets.

"Thanks... I'm going to go to sleep now." He turned and walked into what Torres assumed was his bedroom. Wearily, he peeled off shirt and pants, crawled under the strange sheets and questioning his decision of staying in a stranger's house, drifted into a dream laden sleep.

September 22. Mik racked his brains to pinpoint the date. Nothing. No birthdays nor anniversaries missed. Certainly no holidays. Frowning he shivered in his large bed, piled with blankets, wondering what he had missed. Tabitha had turned off the heat again. She did things like that at random, just to piss off her tenants. She desperately needed a boyfriend, Mik decided for the umpteenth time. Maybe Torres....No. Mik dismissed that thought before it could become fully formed.

Already, he felt oddly protective of the man-child, wanted to talk to him more when they were both awake again. It was the first time he felt like something fit. Torres was supposed to be here, now. Even the thought that he was sleeping in the other room eased his mind long enough for sleep to over take it.

()

Cold. Cold woke Torres from his light sleep, forcing him to contemplate his choices. He could put his jeans and shirt back on, but they already smelled like bar and his burgeoning hangover informed him that wasn't an option. He could search the strange apartment for extra blankets, but he was fairly certain he wasn't going to find any. If it was this cold and Mik wasn't used to having visitors, chances were all the blankets were in the master bedroom. So. Freezing seemed his only option.

Not acceptable, he decided. Quietly as he knew how, he slid from the creaky, uncomfortable sofa/bed and stood. The world swam around him for a short time, so he waited, getting his bearings in the darkness. The sun peeked through heavy curtains, but not strong enough yet to lighten the apartment's early morning gloom. On cat feet, he thread his way into the bedroom, realizing to late that he had no idea if Mikhael was heavy sleeper or not. To late because he was already inside, even darker in here. Could see the vague outline of a body in the bed, chest rising and falling, curled under a pile of blankets.

Ah ha! He snuck a bit closer and reached down to pluck off the top layer, but Mik suddenly shifted in his sleep, so that his hand met briefly with a hairy ankle. And his fleeting impression was: warm!

How long had it been? How long since he had curled around another human being, in search of creature comfort? Late high school and college had seen him with women abound, but lately the once proud man-whore that was Torres had wearied of the parade. The spaces between were larger and more frequent. Anne. The name came to him suddenly. Anne had been the last. That had been in June, he remembered. Now the full brunt of September was on them and nothing. Nor had he thought about looking for someone else to take her place. One would eventually come along, but it would never be the right one. Maybe...

"Torres?" Mik was sitting up in bed, staring at him. He must have felt the accidental brush and woken up. He realized how he must look, still stripped down to his boxer's and one hand lingering on the bed.

"I just came in to get a blanket…"

Mik grimaced.

"My landlady is a sadist. The cold woke you?"

Eye contact and Torres nodded, once.

"I'm glad it did." Mik replied to the nod.

"Why?"

"Sometimes...I don't know if I'm imagining it." Mik spilled out all at once. "The cold. I mean, I know it's cold out, but I never know when she shuts off the heat and sometimes..."

"You just feel cold even knowing that the thermostat reads 76 degrees." Torres finished off. Now it was Mik's turn to nod. An uneasy silence gripped them both until Mikhael, sensing the changing mood drew up the covers next to him.

"If you want..."

Torres didn't let himself think with anything, but his goose bumped skin before sliding under the covers of the infinitely more comfortable bed. Awkwardly, Mik turned to him, offering what he had. Torres heaved an internal sigh before taking it, settling into the Russians' larger body. Why not? His nihilism and optimism working together for once. No day, but today and all. He hadn't met anyone else and frankly, there was no one else to care what he did in his private life.

"Cyanide." He said decisively, feeling a little silly since he was saying it into a burly WARM! chest.

"What?" Mik asked, already starting to fall back asleep.

"My name. Cyanide. Cyanide Torres."

"It's a pleasure to meet you." And for the first time in a long time, they both laughed.

()Six Months Later()

"Cya?" Mik called from the front door. He could hear his lover's music playing softly in the living room, but there was neither hide nor hair of him there.

"In the bedroom." The voice drifted from the other room, overpowering the sibilant whispers of the radio. Mik flicked the switch on the massive stereo that he had bought for Cyanide's birthday. It was a monstrosity in his home, but the only thing that reminded him on weekdays that he still wasn't alone in the world. Reminded him why time was important because days had meanings again. Fridays meant waiting for the afternoon, a knock on the door and a flurry of smells and activities. He had been out more in the past six months then his entire adult life combined. Weekends meant outing's and staying's in. Long leisurely days in bed, quick days in stores and movies, theaters. Cramming everything into their lives.

Mik entered his bedroom to find chaos. He didn't bat an eye. Since the younger man had started to bless Mikhael with his regular presence, he frequently found himself asking the same question, "What?" Now it seemed par for the course. Empty bags and desolate hangers littered the floor, a pile of clean laundry was heaped onto the bed. Laundry that definitely wasn't his, unless someone had spilled black ink onto nearly everything he owned.

"Should I bother to ask what's going on here?"

"No." Cya informed him with a quick grin, never pausing in his work. "Just go to your studio. I'll come in when I'm done."

Mik watched for a moment as clothes were shoved around seemingly at random. His lovers whipcord body moved between bed, closet, drawers as if motivated by an outside force. For a moment, he wanted nothing more to have Cyanide warm beneath him, littering his face with kisses. But he knew better then to force the issue and like a well trained dog left his bedroom in the hand's of the Latino.

It was only an hour or so later that warm arms encircled him from behind. Smooth cheek and sharp chin resting on his shoulder. Dancing eyes took in the new painting and refrained from rolling. They'd had fights already about Mik's paintings, Cyanide didn't like them. Mik accused him of behind unsupportive. It was an ugly scene and one they'd both learned to avoid.

"Come on."

Mik rose to his feet, cracking his back while Cyanide looked on amused.

"You'd think by now I'd be over it." He said to himself.

"Be over what?" Mik asked him.

"Over how damn big you are!"

"You love it." Mik teased, his grin lascivious.

"Yeah well." Cyanide blushed.

"Show me what you did."

The closet was a marvel of engineering. It looked like it had been spilt in half by a ruler and a truly anal retentive mind. Which it had. The ruler was on the floor. With the calculator. Mik smiled. Attention to detail was definitely one of Cyanide's strong points.

Half the closet was his clothes and the bottom his shoes. The other half...it looked like a sea of black, spotted with the occasional red or white. Various boots littered the bottom and a few pairs of sneakers. Mik glanced over to his CD collection for confirmation. The small 24 stackholder had been replaced with one of those massive towers he had seen in stores, but was afraid to buy because he knew that he would never accumulate that much music in this lifetime. This one was filled to busting.

"What's all this about?" He finally asked, turning to face Cya.

"I thought a lot about what you've been saying the past few weeks," The younger man pushed at his lip piercing, nervous, "I decided you were right. It would be easier if I just moved in." He shrugged. " So I did. Is that okay?"

Mik smiled, reassuring. It was so very rare that Cyanide asked his opinion on anything, let alone something as big as this, that he wanted to savor it.

"It's better then okay."

"Good enough that I can stay without paying rent?" Cya asked hopefully.

"Well....." Mik put on a thoughtful face, " I don't know about free, but I'm sure we could work out a payment plan..."

Cya let out a mock groan.

"Four times a day tops. And not right before I have to go to class or work."

"You drive a hard bargain."

Mik drew the younger man into his arms, doubly please to find that Cya went willingly. They stood for a long while, capturing the moment. They're relationship wasn't easy. Their similar temperaments, but difference in taste led to a number of vicious arguments. Mik's high expectations in love and Cya's identity struggle threw them for curves and sometimes, not even sex made up for it. Still, they stayed together because in between all that, there was something Right. Something Real. The world just clicked better when they were in the same room. Things were clearer.

"I bought home some Indian from that place you liked down the street from the University."

Mik blinked in surprise.

"But you hate Indian."

"There's also pizza."

It turned out that curry tasted very good with tomato sauce, especially when blended with gentle kisses.


	2. Out, Stuck, Smile, Safe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world spun on.

The world spun on. That was what truly amazed Harley. It wasn't that he was so narcissistic as to believe that someone as small as him among the billions citizens of earth should have a profound impact on the earth's axis. It was just....something should have happened!

Here he was, lying in his best friend's room. Not thinking about anything, just chilling and reading some random magazine. Typical day. Skids was a few feet away from him, also flipping the pages of some glossy text. And he had just said it. Out loud. To someone else. For the first time. And besides from Skids looking thoughtful, nothing had happened. Not even a single tiny explosion.

"When did you realize?" Skids asked finally.

"I dunno. It's kinda just always been there, ya know?"

Skids nodded and flashed him a brilliant smile. The type that makes you smile back. So Harley did. Yet.... he really had expected worse. Wasn't sure if he was pleased at the low level of shock.

"Am I obvious?" He inquired.

"Whatta ya mean?" Skids tilted his head slightly. It struck Harley, not for the first time, how puppy like his friend was. Friendly, rambunctious, slyly intelligent and generally adorable. It was an odd contrast to his school persona. In school....Skids was silent. Like something inside him died the minute he stepped into the doors. Harley chalked it up to the years of middle school abuse.

God only knows he had tried to defend his friend, but Harley had always been petit and frankly not that menacing. So, Skids had learned to cope on his own. In school he hardened his heart, wore black leather, spiked collars and stayed silent. He did well enough in written work that teachers put him in the same classes as Harley. The other kids thought he was some type of idiot savant.

Harley knew better. In private, Skids shed this skin and he was like he used to be: Puppy Skids with a wild grin and the idea that life was kind of like a rainbow, full of color, joy and promise. He had a hunch that when Skids was free of high school, everything would be a lot better.

"Did you know or maybe think that I was?"

Skids evaluated his friend for a long time.

"It never mattered. You're Harley and my best friend. That's what matters."

A warm glow infused the room. The total sense of belief that Skids placed in his words had a finalizing feeling. There was no arguing with it and it put everything neatly in place. No matter what, through Hell or high water, Skids and Harley are best friends. Harley figured that for his first out of the closet experience, that was pretty damn good. The warmth sat there for a while in his stomach until he had an epiphany.

"Skids." The brunette looked up from drawing a mustache on Tom Cruise.

"Yeah?"

"Are you...ya know...like me?"

Skids blinked at him.

"We like the same music and Buffy. We have a lot in common, but I mean, let's face it we have very different personalities..."

"You know what I meant." Harley interrupted. Added a pout as an after thought. Sly intelligence. You never knew exactly how much of Skids was an act. Layers upon layers.

"I know."

"So?"

"So, what?" Skids shot back innocently. Harley groaned in frustration.

"So are you?" Skids bit his lip.

"Ask me in three years."

"Why three?"

"I dunno... Something important...three. I'll know in three years."

Harley debated pushing the issue, but he decided to leave it alone. There was enough trauma in his everyday life that he didn't need to force the issue on his friend.

()Five years Later()

"You home?" Harley yelled into the apartment as he entered. The day was bitter, but the short hallway that led into his shared place was imbued with heat.

"In the living room." Came the muffled reply. Harley smiled and withdrew a slender envelope from his jacket before hanging it up.

The gray hallway let out into the apartment proper. Living room first, kitchen shoved to the back of it, three doors in the living room. One was the bathroom, the other two were bedrooms. Small to be sure, but for first year grad students with part-time jobs, it was pretty impressive. More then that. It was home.

Harley entered this humble abode and was greeted by the sight of his roommate draped in a bean bag chair, hat pushed over his eyes, a drawing pad laying face down on his chest and a charcoal held limply in one hand.

"Caught you napping?"

"Mmmm....." The chair blob moved slightly, the sound of adjusting foam bits crunched through the air. " I ate dinner already, the rest is in the fridge."

"Sorry for being late, but you know how my boss is." Harley couldn't keep the smile out of his voice.

"You're excited. What are you excited about?" Curious head tilted back and the base ball cap fell to the floor, leaving thick brown hair a total mess. Harley decided that if he smiled any harder, his face would split in two. He knelt down next to the patched plastic bag and threaded one hand into that tempting mop of brown.

"You know how you said that when the letter came, you wanted me to open it?"

A breath hitched, and the once limp hand started to beat the charcoal against the paper.

"I remember." Came the husky whisper.

"Well, I got the mail today and saw the return address. So I opened it in the lobby." Dramatic pause.

"Damnit! Stop teasing me and just spill!"

"It's a done deal. They're showing you're paintings in the gallery. For free."

Men really shouldn't be able to squeal. Skids could. He also could grab Harley and dance around the room with him until they both collapsed exhausted and reddened on the floor. So he did. The letter itself was safely ensconced on the refrigerator.

"I can't believe it." Skids kept saying. "My first real show..."

"It'll be great." Harley assured him. "It's a good thing you already picked out all the pieces. You did it! "

Skids smiled softly at the blonde, before crawling over, so that he was laid length wise right over him.

"We did it. Your my muse, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." They smiled at each other like to loons, before Skids lay down a gentle kiss on pink lips. Harley's hands automatically went to circle the hard muscled back, drawing his lover down to him, loving the feel of the warm weight, but craving much more contact.

How many times, he wondered, had they done this? Come together after a long day and been too impatient to make it to the bedroom? The floor was rapidly becoming, their tradition, albeit an uncomfortable one. They had made love for the first time here, amid roses and over sleeping bags, when they'd only had the apartment a week.

Skids hands made short work of their clothes as Harley let his mind wander down memory lane. Thought about that conversation so long ago. He never had asked. Just let it slid until low and behold it was three years later. Their second year of college. His own first short lived affair with a boy behind him, Harley felt empowered and curious. The girls loved Skids there, even some of the boys showed intrest, but he steadily turned them all down, favoring days spent staring at a canvas. The art teachers despaired of him because he refused to learn technical skills. He couldn't even draw very well. Everything was abstractions, but such beautiful abstractions! The ideas that laced through lines and vague suggestions of objects....Harley liked to just look at one and let his mind freefall.

Compelled by one such painting, that reminded Harley of certain naughty bits, he had turned to it's creator.

"It's been three years." He commented. Skids was lying on the floor at the time, Harley looking down at him from the bed. An omen for things to come?

"Since what?"

"Since I told you and you said in three years, you'd tell me."

Silence reigned aside from a slight fidgeting noise on the floor.

"Tell you what?"

"What you want! Girls? Boys? Sheep?" That got a quick laugh, but it faded off.

"Do you really want to know?" Skids asked finally, rising to his knees on the floor, looking eye to eye with his best friend.

"Yes. Unless you don't want to tell me." He amended, the close range made the scene more intimate all of a sudden. Like someone had sucked the air out of the room.

"You. I want you." And Skids had never sounded like that before. His voice so deep, it hurt. Rubbed raw with emotion. The eye contact added to the incredible heat, escalating it and Harley wondered if he'd ever be able to breath again. The odd angle didn't help either. Graceful, Harley slid off the bed until he was kneeling in front of Skids, keeping the intense eye contact between them, all the while making rapid decisions.

"You can have me." And his voice didn't waver one bit.

"Please, Harls...no fakes, okay? Not just to make me feel all right?" True begging, another first.

"No fakes." Harley said firmly. "No cop outs and no lies. Just us. Best friends and maybe something more."

There weren't really words to describe what happened when Harley leaned forward in that instant. Most people would call it a kiss, but it was oh! so much more. It was a promise, a gift given and a gift taken, it was love and it was the bond that went bone deep. Soul deep, if you believed in such things.

And afterwards, their lips parted for breath, their foreheads touched togethor , arms around the others neck and A Moment. The type that last forever, but somehow still end to soon.

"Earth to Harley!" The blonde looked up blinking to see Skids staring down at him frustrated.

"Sorry, I zoned for a minute." He let a sly smile dance across his lips. "I was just thinking about you."

"Normally a good excues, but not when you've got the real thing!" And now they were back to smiling. This was definitely a smiling day. And if Harley was going to have any say, all this smiling was continuing someplace more comfortable.

"Can we bring this party to the bed? My back is killing me."

"Wimp." Skids teased, rising to his feet, leaving his the rest of his clothing behind. He offered Harley his hand and together they walked into the bedroom, bare naked as to virgins, hand and hand in love.


	3. United, Divided, Decided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys never met, but that is soon to be fixed. Wacky high jinks ensue.

"Where the hell is my..."

"Right here.

"What about the.."

"It's in the car."

Beat. Mikhael stared down at his lover.

"Is there anything I can panic about?" He asked finally.

Cya thought for a minute.

"Umm...Getting there on time?"

"Oh, shit!"

Cya chuckled, trailing after his boyfriend and locking the door behind him. It was the second show that he was living through with Mikhael and the first one had taught him to get a sense of humor about it. If he didn't, he might just kill his lover and then there'd be all the post-mortem fuss which was more then it was worth.

"All the paintings?"

"Have been there for weeks. Get in the car, Rasputin."

"Are you sure?"

Cyanide glared at him, pointedly. Mikhael got in the car and they were on their way. It was interesting to see Mik wrestle with his inner road demons. On the one hand, he wanted to speed to get there. On the other, he was afraid of breaking traffic codes. So the ride was filled with accelerations and decelerations until Cya thought he was going to lose his lunch all over his tux.

"Well,...here we are." Mik said, unnecessarily. He didn't budge out of his seat.

The Latino turned to see a very nervous Mik, staring at the steering wheel. He laid a hand on the trembling thigh.

"Come on. It'll be okay, Mik. These people like your stuff, you know they do. And to hell with them if they don't."

"I'm so sorry to be like this..."

"Shhh." Cyanide unbuckled his seatbelt and pushed up the arm rest. With dexterity born of practice he leaned over to kiss his lover. "I'll be there, no matter what."

Mik pulled in a shaky breath.

"You did promise to behave right?"

Cya smacked his arm and opened the door, flashing him an angelic smile.

"Good as gold, love. Good as gold."

Mik sighed and got out to follow.

()()

"You look.... Beyond fabulous." Harley managed to say. He had come home from work early, expecting Skids to still be lounging around, but he had underestimated the brunette's excitement. He had returned to see his lover just emerging from the bedroom, wearing the outfit they had picked out together.

They had operated on the knowledge that the other artist would most likely go for the ultra formal look most painters went for at gallery openings. So, they decided to go the opposite route. It had worked out better then they could imagine.

Skids had on a tight red tank top, dark blue vinyl pants, also tight, and black sneakers. His hair was neatly combed for once, but Harley knew it wouldn't last more then ten minutes. The brunette had to much energy to keep still without sending his hair into a massive upheaval of muss.

"You really think so?"

"Defiantly! I guess I'd better get ready too!"

Which took a bit longer then it should have, but was it really his fault with Skids looking that good in vinyl? And the hair was officially mussed. In the end, Harley was dressed in a shimmering silver button down, open halfway down to reveal his belly button piercing and low riding black leather pants. The car ride was post-coital and filled with leisurely touches.

The show was due to open in an hour, but the reproving look from the owner/curator that greeted them at the door.

"You two look great, but your nearly twenty minutes late." Immi scolded, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear.

"Sorry." Skids managed. "We were...."

"Distracted." Harley filled in without missing a beat.

"Mmmm..." She looked between the two of them and just sighed a little. "All right, why don't you come in and meet the other artist."

Leading the way into the gallery, they stopped for only a moment to gaze at the permanent exhibit. The gallery was three rooms. The initial always held paintings by the owner while the other two were rotating. Tonight Skids was in the left room and Mikhael Rasputin was in the right. Somewhere far above, someone was having a really good laugh.

Currently the Rasputin-Torres party was checking out the compition. And were pretty confused.

"Is that an arm or a leg?" Mik finally asked of the particular painting they were looking at.

"I dunno." Cya admitted. "Honestly, I thought your stuff was off kilter, but compared to this you look like Norman Rockafeller."

"Thanks a lot." Mik said tightly. Cya rolled his eyes.

"You know what I..."

"Excuse me, Mr. Rasputin?"

Mik turned to see a small lithe blonde smiling cheerily up at him. A very sexy young blonde. With his boyfriend resting a proprietary hand on his shoulder, asking him a question.

"That's me." He managed. Cya shot him an annoyed look. A-sure-they're-cute-but -put- your- eyes -back- in- your- head look.

"I'm Skid Dianglo." Ah! The other artist. Mik shook the proffered hand. The one that wasn't curling possessively around the blonde.

"You can call me, Mikhael. And this is my...." Mik paused, fishing for a title. Cyanide was still uncomfortable with being outed in public.

"Boyfriend." Cya filled in, startling himself and Mik. "Cyanide Torres."

"Hey! I'm a boyfriend of the artist too!" The blonde said with a laugh. "Harley. Maybe the two of us should team up and leave the artists to brood over final placements."

"I don't brood." Skids protested. "I sulk."

Harley rolled his eyes.

"Whatever you say, love." They exchanged a long loving look. Mik looked expectantly at Cyanide. The Latino crossed his arms.

"Don't even start. You brood and you know it."

Mik heaved a dramatic sigh. Cyanide patted him on the arm.

"You can't even pretend to indulge me?" He asked.

"Not a chance."

() Several Hours Later()

"Do you think they even know how late it is?" Harley asked as Cyanide passed him another glass of complimentary champagne. The two had ensconced themselves on a bench, conveniently placed near the makeshift bar.

"Nah. If I know Mik, he's probably too caught up in the attention. He really needs to get out more."

"A real homebody, huh?" Harley took a sip of the cheap bubbly. " I don't know if I could deal with that."

"You guys party a lot?" Cyanide asked, the slightest edge of jealousy in his voice.

"Yes, and no. We go out a lot, but it's pretty much a party of two." There was no missing the loving tones in Harley's voice. Cyanide couldn't help, but smile. He shot a glance at Mik, who was looking desperate about the huge pile of women around him. He looked up to catch Cyanide's glance, begging for help. The Latino laughed and handed his glass to Harley.

"Be right back, duty calls." Threading through the crowds he soon reached Mik's side. Making a small show of it, he slid up Mik's side, wrapping protective arms around a huge bicep.

"There you are lover," his voice raised an octave and Mik had a hard time not cracking up at the disappointed faces around him. "I've been looking all over for you."

"Your boyfriend's quite a painter." One of the hipper women commented, shooting him a pointed look as if he was somehow responsible for this ability.

Mik placed at hand on the small of Cya's back and returned back to the conversation, able to keep track and socialize while rubbing one finger over his lover's spine. Harley watched from a distance and was about to rise to find Skids when his way was blocked by a striking man.

"Are you the artist?" The man asked, waving an elegant hand at the paintings. Harley blushed.

"No. My boyfriend is."

"How charming! He has excellent taste."

"Well, he works very hard at them."

"I meant in men." The red head said, practically purring.

"Oh!" Realization dawned on Harley. "I'm sorry, but I'm not interested."

"We can work on that. I'm Tybalt." He took the blonde's hand in a slow shake.

"I'm Harley."

"Harley." Tybalt rolled the name on his tongue. "How charming. Very very charming."

"Um. That's sweet, but like I said, I have a boyfriend."

"Your point?"

"The point is I'd like my hand back."

"Mmmmm. Let me consider your request." The grip tightened a little. "No."

At that moment, Cyanide happened to look after and got a good look at Harley's trapped statement. Immediately, he recognized the captor. Mik had pointed the man out at his last show, telling him the whole sordid story. Cya had avoided him up to this point, but he had come up with several torture plans, should Tybalt ever stumble into his hands. Looked like the time was nigh. Giving one last squeeze to Mik's arm, he slipped away and quiet as a cat and shimmied up behind the red head.

"'Scuse me, but could you remove your hands from my boyfriend?" He growled low, doing his best Mik impression. Tybalt started and released Harley, who in turn shot a look at Cya. The punk just winked at him and mouthed 'just go with it' at him. "Was this man bothering you, baby?"

"I was just telling Harley here, how wonderful your work was." Tybalt managed to say, regaining his charm.

"I'm sure, " Oh, if looks could kill. "You can go away now."

"Are you sure I can't interest you in a little three way action?"

Cya's eyes flashed dangerously and he would have let loose on the moron in front of him, if he hadn't at the last moment come up with an even better idea. An idea so evil, he almost didn't go through with it. Almost.

"Actually..." He turned to Harley, trying to tell him to play along with his eyes, " that sounds like fun."

"Yeah." Harley echoed, not really sure what was going on, but willing to go along with it.

"Look, here's our address." Cya took out a pen and scribbled it onto a cocktail napkin. "Come around when you can and we'd be happy to uhhh....negotiate."

Tybalt greedily snitched the address, glancing it over once.

"You live in apartment 666? Isn't that a little cliché?"

"We're renting from a friend. A woman will answer the door, tell her that Cyanide sent you. Now, go away."

He turned away, dragging Harley with him, through the other room to where Skids was also being interrogated by several critics.

"What was that all about?" Harley hissed at him.

"Loooong story, but trust me, he's going to get what he deserves." He pulled a pen out from somewhere in his tux and scribbled a number on Harls' hand. "Call us sometimes. We could all hang out and I'll tell you the whole story."

The blonde flashed him a grateful smile.

"Sounds good. Thanks for the save."

"No problem." "The show went well." Cyanide said finally, breaking the silence as they entered the bedroom, shedding clothes as they went.

"It did, didn't it?" Mik's voice was muffled as he pulled his undershirt over his head, letting it drop to the floor. He blinked large dark eyes at Cyanide, heat rushing to his groin as the Latino purposely slowed his shucking of clothes. "Thank you for not freaking anyone out."

"I told you I'd be good." Cya said over his shoulder, his hands straying to the black tux pants, unzipping them painfully slowly before dropping them to the ground. "What did you think of Skids and Harley?"

Mik looked thoughtfully at his lover, hearing the other question in that question. He answered both.

"Skids is a good enough artist. A little to hyper for me. Harley....I don't usually like tiny blondes."

"But you'd make an exception in his case?"

"Oh my God. "Mik laughed, shaking his head, " I never thought I'd see the day! Cyanide Torres is jealous!"

Cya pouted.

"Am not."

"You are too!" Mik quickly crossed the gap between them, enfolding Cya in his arms. "You are mine. There may be others who I look at and your eyes wander a little too. But no one else is like you, Cya. No one else knows when to leave me alone or when to drag me back to bed. No one can make me want to scream and laugh at the same time. No one else knows where to scratch my back and how hard. No one else would make me eat homemade fajitas and enjoy them."

"Someone else could learn. " It was meant to be a joke, but somehow his voice cracked a little.

With a sigh, Mik got down on one knee, his head level with Cyanide's half-sun tattoo. He whispered into dark flesh. Cya usually hated poetry and pretty words, but tonight was different and part of love is knowing when to force these things and when to leave them alone.

"No one could learn to be what I really want. No one could learn to be you." Mik tilted his head up to stare into dilated pupils. "I love you. And I'll keep telling you, a thousand times over until the world collapses to shards and the fire at the center of the earth extinguishes."

With a sigh, Cya shimmied down until he too was kneeling, eye to eye with the larger man.

"Yeah, me too. But sometimes...."

"What?"

"I dunno. You really don't mind if I look, once and a while?"

Mik chuckled.

"I'd be scared if you didn't. The day you stop looking at girls' behinds and boy's crotches, I'm checking you into a mental hospital."

Cya glared at him, but was obviously repressing a chuckle.

"Wanna take this lovefest to bed?" Mik asked, confused when the Latino burst out in laughter, falling to the floor.

"Subtle, Mik. Reaaall romantic."

The Russian let his lover laugh it out, before joining him on the carpet which he would regret tomorrow when he could feel the sting of rug burn against his jeans, but for tonight was wonderful.

()

"You should have seen it! I thought that guy was gonna turn blue!" Harley was retelling Cya's save to Skids while they got ready for bed. The usually bouncy brunette seemed tired as he tossed his shirt to the floor.

"That's great, Harls."

Sensing something wrong, Harley looked over to the other side of the room and saw his lover trembling.

"Skids? Are you okay?"

The Italian turned, facing his lover, head on. Harley could pick out tears.

"I should have been there." Was the whispered reply.

"What?"

"I should have been the one to punch that moron and save you. I failed. Like I've failed before. One day, there isn't going to be anyone else there Harls. And then I'm really going to lose you." The fear was there and very real all of a sudden.

Before he could respond, Harley had to fight his own fear. He hadn't thought about what would happen, had Cyanide not intervened. Probably nothing, Tybalt while annoying hadn't seemed dangerous. But there was always a chance...

"You can't be there all the time, Skids. You won't lose me. Not like that."

"That's what I'm worried about. There are so many ways, Harls. By choice or not. One day we might wake up and just be out of love. It happens all the time."

"Not to us." Harley said firmly, finally going over to Skids and pulling him into a tight, reaffirming hug. "Not now and not ever."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Cause sometimes, things happen for a reason. We're here and now because we're supposed to be. That can't change. Plus, for some stupid reason, I am in love with you. I fall back in love with you every morning and that isn't going to just change one day."

Big brown eyes gazed down at him.

"Really?"

"Really. Now get your ass in bed."

"Yes, Sir!"

()

Tybalt adjusted his shirt slightly, before knocking on the door. For a long moment, no one answered. Maybe he had gotten the address wrong?

"'Ello. Who the hell are you?" A dangerous looking woman answered the door, in extremely tight, revealing clothes.

"Name's Tybalt. Cyanide sent me?" Her eyes lit up. Must have gotten it right then, he decided. " May I come in?"

"Anytime, pretty boy. I'm Tabitha. Cyanide's told me a lot about you."

"Oh, really?" He asked, bored. He stepped into the apartment, the vague smell of sulfur assaulted him. Long delicate fingers ending in wicked black points landed on his shoulder and he was being dragged to the bedroom.

"Oh, yes....how do you feel about bondage?"

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!"

()

Mik blinked sleepily.

"Wha? What was that?"

Cyanide snuggled closer and snickered a little.

"Nothing. Just go back to sleep."

"Hey, Tabby turned the heat on."

"Just go back to sleep, Mik."

"Cyaaa.....what did you do?"

"Nothing you wouldn't approve of. Now, go back to sleep!"

Mik yawned and settled back into bed, enjoying the now, pleasantly warm apartment.

It was fairly regular day in the Rasputin-Torres household. Mik had spent the better part of the day contemplating a canvas and fielding several telemarketers. Around five he threw together a stir-fry, tossed it into a Tupperware container and set it on the counter. Into the bedroom, picking out a book at random before settling on the bed on his stomach. Almost as soon as he was settled the door slam shut. He could hear vague mutterings and the throwing around of various layers, landing mostly where they belonged.

He felt rather then heard Cya enter the room, dark eyes taking in the scene before the final sound of shoes hitting the floor echoed through the bedroom. And then just heat, delicious warmth and a flooding of all the senses as Cya settled into his favorite nap position, right on top of Mik. One leg snuggled between thick thighs, the other on the bed, his head between muscular shoulders and one hand tracing patterns through the cotton of the Russians shirt. The quiet was part of it. It was a transition period of the day as he went from being Mr. Torres, graduate assistant and student to Cya, bitchy Latino princess of Mik's heart.

Eventually, he would talk and begin to describe, in vivid detail, his day. Detailing to his isolated lover, the life that he led outside of their bubble. Teachers, students and the guy who sold him his daily Pepsi were all fair game to the caustic mouth. Anyone else would have been bored. Mik was fascinated. Well, most of the time. Okay, sometimes he was just happy to hear another voice, but his own and may not have focused on the details, but one had to cut him some slack.

"You made dinner."

"Wha? Yeah. I did." Mik said, slowly, aware that he just tuned in, in the middle of a ramble.

"We're meeting Harley and Skids for dinner tonight, remember? It's Friday."

Internally Mik groaned. He wanted more then anything to just fuck Cya into oblivion tonight and eat dinner at one a.m. when they both woke up ravenous from a post-coital nap. But his lover seemed to have other plans.

"Do I have to?"

Cya thumped him in the back of the head.

"Am I the only one participating in our conversations? YOU were the one who thought it was a good idea."

"I did not! YOU gave them our phone number."

Thump. Pause. Thump.

"Okay! Okay!"

()

"Skids? Why the hell are you still in your pajamas?"

"Uh? I had the day off?"

Harley stared down at the brunette, who he had to admit looked adorable in flannel pants and a wifebeater, but it was nearly six o'clock at night and they were supposed to meet Cyanide and Mikhael for dinner.

"Go put on pants, we're going to be late."

"But we're always late!" Skids protested, even as he got up to grab a pair of relatively clean jeans off the floor.

"No. You're always late. I'm always on time. I just can't leave without you."

Skids' reply was muffled as he pulled off the wife beater and reached for his sweater.

"If you didn't try tomufkmewhenmeffe had to be some place."

"What was that?" Menace fairly leaked from the blonde's voice.

"I said why don't you go get the car started, we have to be some place."

Harley glared daggers, but Skids pulled his best innocent face.

"It's not like you seem to mind." And without he turned on his heels leaving Skids to laugh at his retreating figure.

()Post-dinner, Coffee House()

"Okay, I officially am in love with you." Harley was confessing to Mik while Cyanide and Skids looked on amused.

"You're welcome." Mik managed to stutter out flustered, turning to Cya, who only laughed.

"Dude, he just meant that he liked the coffee." Skids assured the Russian.

"This isn't just coffee! This is THE Coffee. There is no other coffee like it. I can't believe we lived five blocks away from here and never found this place!" Harley babbled on, having had maybe one too many expressos.

"Oh."

"Don't worry, Mik. You two share something beautiful." Cya reassured his lover, patting him condescendingly on the arm. " Just think, a whole relationship based on the shared interest of a single coffee shop."

"I think I need cliff notes to follow this conversation, " Mik mumbled. He had immensely enjoyed dinner, finding both of the younger men good company, but he had worn out his supply of tolerance and he wanted to go home.

"Could you get me a refill?" Cya asked him suddenly, passing him his empty mug. Mik took it, grateful for the brief reprieve and the pressure of espresso fingers on his, told him that this was the last one.

"So, Mik? Totally wrapped around your finger?" Harley asked, the moment the Russian was out of earshot. Cya gave him an enigmatic smile.

"Sometimes."

"I gotta know. Which one of you two, ya know..."

"What?" There was a gleam in Harley's eyes that made Cya's skin itch.

"Well ya, know..... tops?"

"Harls! Remember that talk we had on personal questions?" Skids said, shooting an apologetic look at Cya.

"The one where we decided that I got two at every social event?"

"I don't remember agreeing to that...."

"You were busy at the time. Something to do with raspberry syrup."

"Did I just learn something potentially kinky and disgusting about your sex life?" Cya interrupted. Skids had the decency to blush, but Harley just flashed him a bright smile.

"You think that's kinky! You should see what Skids can do with his tongue and a few...." He didn't get a chance to finish as Skids hand had somehow wound up clamped over Harley's mouth, pushing back his chair and forcing Harley to get up as well. "It's been great meeting you guys, but I think we'd better go."

Mik returned at the moment, feeling more confused then ever as Skids said to Harley,

"Say goodnight to Mik, Harley." Before removing his hand.

"Goodnight to Mik, Harley."

Thump.

Mik met Harley's eyes in silent sympathy.

"They just bitch and bitch don't they..."

Thump. Damn! Cya was fast.

"I think you and I should host a meeting for abused boyfriends." Harley muttered to Mik.

"You deserve it." Cya and Skids chorused. All four laughed, ending the night on a good note.

Then, they went to their separate homes and ended the night on a great note. Although Mik had a hard time finding raspberry syrup at two o'clock in the morning, he did have to admit that it was worth the effort.


	4. Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley &amp; Cya talk.

It was strange to just sit and talk to someone else, Cya thought, someone else who understands. He had been living a double life for nearly a year now or more like he had been two people. One went to school everyday, worked it's ass off for the grades and earned a pittance salary being Professor Nummit's, or as he liked to refer to him: Numb nuts, slave. The other lived with Mik. And besides the Russian there had been no one to talk to about all of this. But now here he was. At a coffee house. With another man, who was involved in a long term relationship with a guy.

Weird.

"So yeah, we were friends for like ever and we kind of just fell into the whole thing. Like it was planned." Harley wound down. The narrative of how he and Skids had gotten together took only a few minutes, but it was packed with meaning and emotion. Cya nodded graciously, groping for the next thing to say.

"That's cool....that you guys could find each other like that. If I was in the same situation, I don't think I would be able to say anything."

"So, what about you and Mik?" Harley shot back.

"What about us?"

"How'd ya know, hook up?"

"I went into this bar to warm up, we hit it off, got drunk. Went back to his place and fell asleep in the living room. Woke up freezing and wound up in his bed to warm up."

"That's it?" Harley asked, one eyebrow cocked.

"No! I mean...well sorta. I didn't just have sex with him if that's what you mean."

"You mean to tell me, you climbed into his bed and you didn't have sex?" The blonde's voice rose an octave.

"Yeah, well...I was scared, but we kept seeing each other. I mean, I gave him my number and I would just crash at his place on weekends, to escape home. Slept in his bed...one thing kinda just led to another." Cya muttered into his coffee. This was more embarrassing then he had thought it would be.

"Led to another? Which brings me back to my other question....."

Definitely more embarrassing. He really hoped that his skin hid the magnitude of the blush that he could feel flushing his face with heat.

"He.....does me. Mostofthemtime." Cya rushed out in a whisper. It felt weird hearing the words out loud.

"Wow. Really? I mean, you don't seem the type...."Harley trailed off, trying to communicate the message without really saying anything.

"I hated it the first few times." He surprised himself by saying. "It was just painful and awful and I couldn't figure out why anyone would ever do that to themselves." He paused and then dove back in, something was driving him to say all this, "I was going to give up on it until Mik suggested.....Dios....face to face, even though that might make the pain worse....but somehow it didn't....It was....." He reached for a word, "fantastic. Safe. I felt safe and loved and warm and protected..... I realized that all this time I've always been taking care of someone else, my sisters, a pet, my friends and for the first time, someone took care of me. Protected me."

Silence reigned for a long minute, Cya to embarrassed to speak and Harley to surprised by the amount of trust that Cyanide had just given him. Finally, he placed a light hand on the Latino's arm.

"I get it." Was all he said. And that was enough.

**Elsewhere**

Footsteps in the hall made Mik rush to the door. He was bored out of his skull and he was tired of waiting for Cya to come home. Deep down, he understood his lover's need to spend time with someone beside him, but try telling that to his groin area.

Opening the door, he just managed to catch the tail end of an extremely disturbing scene.

His ex-boyfriend, who may or may not be an evil minion of hell, was standing in Tabitha's doorway looking even more thoroughly debauched then usual. He was wearing wrinkled slacks and a ripped white undershirt, long red hair pulled back in an exceedingly messy ponytail. There were bite and scratch marks marring entire blocks of pure white skin and apparently of the inflictor of these wounds wasn't quite finished yet as she was busily gnawing at the arched graceful neck while Tybalt muttered encouraging nonsense syllables.

For Mik, it was something akin to watching a car wreck. You didn't really want to watch, but somehow you just can't tear your eyes away, even as you can feel the dry heaves coming on.

"Call me as soon as you get home, " Tabby purred at him. "And it would be a very, very bad idea to stand me up."

"No worries." Tybalt purred right back at her. "As soon as I step in the door, I'm yours."

And the heat of the building and Cya's vague hints all clicked into place within Mik's head. A smile curved on his lips as he shut the door quietly behind him. Sometimes, Cyanide was a pain in the ass, but it was moments like these, where his evil was used for the power of good, that Mik remembered why he was in love.

As soon as Cya walked in the door, he was embraced and kissed.

"Mmmmmph. Not that I'm complaining, but what was that for?"

"Tabby and Tybalt are an item." Was all he said. Cya paused for a moment and then launched into a full victory dance around the living room.

The victory dance lead to victory sex. But that's another story all together.


	5. Throwing Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snowball fight.

They had emerged blinking into the crepuscular twilight after nearly six hours in the theater. Seeing the three Scream movies back to back had not been Mik's idea of a good time, but he had come to realize that if he refused to come along, he would later regret it. Cya would come back bursting with stories of the day, of things done and said, laughing. The Russian had a suspicion that he had never made Cyanide laugh like that. So he came. To keep current with life and to escape the over isolation that sometimes threatened to consume him entirely.

"Woah! It's snowing!"

Four sets of blurry eyes turned sky ward and sure enough the second to last stage of a snow storm, fat slow flakes, were already tumbling down. They eyes went to the sidewalk. There was easily two feet of snow on the ground. And they had walked here believing the weather forecast that the snow would hold out until midnight at least.

"Wanna cab it?" Harls started to ask.

"Snow fight!" Skids interrupted and promptly gathered up a handful of snow and threw it down the back of Harley's sweater.

"You are now going to die." The blonde informed his lover, shivering hard. He gathered a ball, but by the time he looked up Skids had slid behind a somewhat confused Cyanide. Harley laughed and throughout the snowball anyway. It caught Cya's shoulder and hit Skid's Square on the cheek.

About ten seconds later the sidewalk in front of the movie theater had exploded into an all out war of snow. Three twenty-three year old graduate students acting much like three year olds. The twenty-nine year old artist leaned against the building, attempting to distance himself from the chaos. Luckily, no one else had been stupid enough to go out with a storm brewing, so there were very few people to see the display of pure childishness.

As he watched, he could feel himself drift into a more analytical frame of mind. He watched his serious lover become totally ridiculous, rolling in the wet with Skids and Harls as if the three of them were puppies. Mik had never felt older. Weight of more years and harder situations hung from him and he couldn't shake it whenever he saw Cya with their new friends.

The idea that Cya would leave him for someone younger was not a new thought. Not that he thought of himself as ancient, but he knew that Cya still had some growing to do and he wasn't sure if their relationship had enough room in it for him to do that. They didn't even have that much in common....but yet.....that wasn't true at all. Obviously, they didn't have the same tastes in most things or even similar belief structures. But they thought the same way. They understood each other. They MADE room for each other because that was just what you did.

"Mik!" The scream jostled the Russian out of his train of thoughts. Just as his head snapped up to see what the problem was he registered three things all at once: One, he couldn't see out of one eye, two there was something extremely cold and wet dripping down face and three, Cyanide was laughing at him.

Without thought, he bent over scooped up snow, packed it and threw it with precision at his lover. He enjoyed the malicious thump it made as it splattered into the meticulously gelled hair and the stunned statement on the Latino's face, that gradually grew into a wicked grin. Then it was every man for himself.

When the smoke cleared and settled, all four men looked much like they had just marched through a blizzard for a minimum of seven hours. The cold started to settle into their bones. Shivering, Harley took refuge under Skids jacket and the two of them said their good-byes and headed for home. Cyanide flashed a smile at Mik before folding into himself for a slouch of epic proportions, one hand shoved deep into a jacket pocket and the bottom half of his face hidden by his jacket. The other hand seemed to have a mind of it's own. It crawled free of it's owners jacket and wandered over to Mik's. Cold slender finger worked their way under layers, landing at last at the small of the larger man's back staying there. Thin sticks of ice basking in soft skin warmth. Mik growled at the cold, but threw a companionable arm over Cya's shoulder, resisting the urge to pull his lover in tighter. The walk was brisk and they were both extremely grateful to reach home.

As soon as they hit the door, clothing was shed off in layers. Jackets went over the radiator, sweaters and pants were thrown in the rough direction of the hamper. Socks were pulled off into a soggy pile on the bathroom floor, underwear in a neat heap right in front of the shower. Naked and freezing, Mik flung the hot water on and stepped in, closely followed by and equally naked and freezing, Cya. Together they stood under the heated spray, playfully trying to push the other out of the way. Eventually the steam alone had warmed them up until their skin tingled with heat.

Without quite willing it, Mik turned off the shower and pulled back the curtain, letting the blast of cold waft over their skin. Cya shivered slightly, before picking his way out of the shower and plucking two thick towels from under the sink. They dried off in semi-silence, broken finally by Cyanide.

"I want you to meet my mom."

"What?"

"I don't know how she's going to react...."

Mik put a hand on Cya's bare shoulder.

"You're going to tell her?"

It had been an unspoken agreement between them that Cyanide would tell his family if and when he felt comfortable about it. On principle, Mik would have had a problem with waiting, but he had a strong feeling that Cya was working on it all the time and it was better not to push.

"Yeah." The younger man reached up to run his hands through the Russian's dark wet hair, spiking it up. "It's been in my head. I just don't..." He quirked a half-smile, in an ironic twist. " I don't want to do it alone, okay?"

The last bit of ice and worry melted from Mik's mind as he leaned down to kiss the worried look away. They stood wrapped together in the overwarmth of the steamed bathroom. They made it to the bed eventually. Mik covering his younger, sometimes frailer, partner with his body and they moved together to a rhythm older then language, finding new ways to express themselves.


	6. Boyfriends to Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Harley and Skids came to be.

The apartment was large with emptiness. It seemed that the sum of their belongings couldn't even make a dent in the three rooms. Moving in was a slow process and since they had no furniture, they decided to sleep in the large room that was a living room/kitchen on sleeping bags. It was like camping out, except without the wild animals and the sure knowledge that no mosquito was getting in.

"Harls?"

"What?" It was late and little light filtered in from the one window. They were almost asleep, next to each other, sharing body heat, but far enough that it didn't feel sexual.

"How long have we been together?"

"Ummm...dunno. We kissed for the first time a month ago, but that was right before finals so we hardly saw each other. Then I went with my 'rents to Florida for a week. And we spent this week moving in. So I guess three days of actual time."

"But a month in theory."

"Yeah."

"Okay." Then silence. Then snoring. That left Harley pondering in the dark.

@@@@

Blech. Classes and working, more classes, followed by more work make for zero fun. Harley banged up the stairs, cursing the broken elevator and made his way to the apartment. He threw open the door, pitched his stuff on the ground and looked up. The light was off. There were candles. And rose petals, hundreds of them all over spread sleeping bags.

For a long minute, he just stood, trying to absorb what his senses were telling him.

"Skids?" He called finally, his voice higher and more unsure then it should have been. "Dude? Where the hell are you?"

Silence. Oooookay. Not sure what to do, he shrugged off his jacket and kicked off his shoes and walked over the refrigerator to grab a snack. He left the lights off.

"Hey." The soft voice startled him out of his contemplation of questionably old leftovers. He turned on the heels of his feet and let out a tiny gasp of air.

His friend of so many years had never looked like that. The hat was gone, his hair in causal ruffle mode. No shirt, barefoot and the top button of hip jeans were open, just enough to see some pubic hair. But it wasn't the clothes, or lack there of, that startled Harley. It was the look of pure need, burning in the light brown eyes.

"Oh..." Harley managed to choke out.

"Happy anniversary."

Harley forgot to breathe. And then Skids was kissing him and he couldn't have breathed even if he wanted to. He melted right into his boyfriend without thought, wrapping hands around that lean, strong chest, running fingers down the bumps of his spine. When they finally parted, it was with reluctance.

"What is all this?" Harley managed finally, gesturing at the darkness, candles and roses, Skids with one sweep.

"Well,...uuhh..." A pretty blush spread over the artist's face.

"Skids. Are you trying to seduce me?" Harley asked finally, tripping fingers up the man in question's chest.

"Ummm....yes?"

"I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me." Harley told him, not breaking the gentle caress. "But babe, you only had to ask."

"No. It has be special, the first time. Otherwise, what is there to remember?"

Harley gave a short bitter laugh.

"Babe, you remember how I was after my first, I'd rather not remember."

"That's why I did this. This is our first and I don't want you to regret it."

Startled, Harley looked straight into his boyfriend's eyes. He saw concern, fear and love and understood.

"I would never regret doing this with you." And Harley tilted his head up for another kiss.

Skids didn't hesitate to accept and actually picked up the shorter man and carried him in the living room, before lying him down on the soft cushion of the sleeping bags. Harley did his best not to laugh because it was obvious that Skids' was nervous as hell.

"Can I undress you?" And there was nothing funny about the huskiness in that voice. If Harley nodded any harder, his head would have fallen off. He was rewarded with another deep kiss while warm rough hands worked at the buttons on his shirt. He let his own hands run wild on the smooth skin of his already bare-chested boyfriend.

Skids broke the kiss to push away the offending shirt, having Harley sit up just enough to get it off and away. The Italian lavished the newly exposed skin with kisses, flicking his tongue over small pink nipples. Harley shivered, not that sensitive there, but it felt good anyway.

Loving hands meanwhile, had traveled farther down and were working, with frustrating slowness to unzip the khakis Harley wore to work.

"Let me." He whispered eventually and Skids obligingly retreated up wards and let Harley have enough room to maneuver out of his pants and boxers. The cool air hit his skin and he bit his lower lip against the shiver that nearly overwhelmed him. He watched in silent fascination as Skids pushed down his own loose jeans and left himself entirely bare. Gorgeous. Hard, long and thick without being grotesque.

They kissed again, for the first time feeling each other with no clothes in the way. The full bodied contact was almost to much to bare, the heat almost overwhelming. Skids could and did fully cover Harley with his body and it for a few seconds, Harley found himself wondering if there had ever been life beyond this, this skin, need, warmth and need.

He can feel Skids trembling.

"Hey." He says softly, " You okay?"

"Better then okay." Woah....there was growl in there.

"You got ya know...stuff?"

A low dirty growl chuckle.

"Behind you."

Harley reached up behind his head and sure enough his hand came back with a condom and a tube of K-Y.

"When?" The blonde managed to choke out while Skids nibbled on his collarbone.

"While you were in Florida. I got lonely, went to the library and used the computer."

"Skids, did you use the library computers to go to porn sites?"

"It was educational." The Italian muttered into the pure white of the neck in front of him. "How else was I supposed to know?"

Good point.

"Could have asked me."

"Harley?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut the hell up."

Teeth clacked from the speed of the closing jaw. He was rewarded by another of those earth shattering kisses and he could feel Skids length pressing against his thigh and opened his legs invitingly, his own erection brushing against a washboard stomach.

And suddenly, there was a wet cool finger where there hadn't been before and he jumped a little in surprise, but realizing it for what it was and a more then a little unclear on how Skids had managed to open and apply the lube when one of his hands was definitely already occupied, he opened farther. Welcomed the invasion and tried to relax his muscles. Slow, slow slow Skids eased a finger inside, shocked by the purity of heat encasing his finger. He attempted to keep kissing the writhing blonde, but at some moments it had become physically impossible. Finally, he tried to add another finger and this time, tried to find that tiny little...

"HOLY SHIT!" Harley bucked beneath him and Skids looked down at him in shock.

"Again!" Harley ordered and Skids obeyed instantly, backing out and the thrusting in again, prepared now for the jolt that went through the beautiful blonde, who's head was thrown back in enjoyment, hands clutching at any piece of Skids' flesh he could touch. Tentatively, he added a third finger and this time a fine tremor ran all the way down to the muscles that clamped hard on the intruding fingers. Again he pulled back and again he thrust forward, shots of pleasure running through his own body just from watching the passion and abandonment from Harley. I'm doing this to him, Skids realized, Me. Not some idiot he picked out of the lineup. Me. He wants me.

The realization was frightening. He moved to kiss Harley again, grateful to find his lover still coherent enough to wrap arms around him and babble nonsense about how good it felt and how beautiful he was. It was Harley, who got them both kneeling, their cocks rubbing against each other in a wonderful, unbelievable rhythm.

Then Harley was gone.

"Hey..." Skids protested and somewhere far off he could hear a soft laugh. There was a sound of something ripping and then fingers! All over him, rolling down latex and smoothing on extra lube. A quick pink tongue grazed his ear and a soft whisper in his ear, every word enunciated and filled with sex,

"I want you in me, Giovanni DiAngelo. I want to feel every inch of that gorgeous cock of yours riding me. I want to wake up tomorrow morning and know every ache is yours."

The voice shot straight to his groin and he moaned helplessly. Harley moved in front of him and turned, so that he was only a few inches away. Instinct alone, guided Skids to put his hands on his own cock and guide it the pick puckered hole his own fingers had prepared for his entrance. Slowly, gently he pushed in, letting his hands rise up Harley's back and settle on thin shoulders. He could hear his lover sucking in a breath through his teeth. He continued until he was flush against the warm expanse of Harley's back, his cock encased in that quivering, strong heat of that incredible and he could whisper in his lover's ear.

"Okay?"

"Never...fucking...better." Harley managed between pants.

Taking that as a good sign, he pulled back a little and pushed back in. He tried that a few times, just feeling the connection between them, the absolute rightness of this.

"Won't break, babe." Harley finally mutter.

But he kept going, trying to angle his thrust until...

"Oh, God! There! God, right there!"

He found the sweet spot again. He pulled back and hit again and again until Harley was bucking up to meet him with every thrust and they fell into give and take that was beyond description. They half-fell together to the floor. Harley leaning on his forearms, Skids bracing himself with one hand, curling the other around Harley's own weeping erection.

Harley kept babbling on, unable to stop the flow of nonsense words, but Skids just gave little moans unable to articulate how amazing this was. He barely registered Harley cuming onto his hand and semi-collapsing underneath him, to close to his own completion he was helpless to do anything, but thrust once, twice more and then the hardest yet, deeper then he thought possible and his own completion was wrung from him in a deep shuddering groan that seemed to come from somewhere below his stomach and rise to his throat with most fantastic burst of tension that spasmed his muscles.

Exhausted, he mustered the energy to pull out of his lover's body and drop to one side. Hard breaths rocked his body while one hand somehow gained a mind of its own and ran through the soft blonde of Harley's hair. Eventually, the rest of his body came under his command and could drag his lover into his arms and wrap himself around the equally tired blonde.

And inexplicably, he felt tears well up his eyes.

"Skids? Skids, are you okay?" Harley's hands landed cool on his face and he felt tears being kissed away.

"I love you." Skids said simply.

For a moment, Harley was confused and then it hit him all at once. Skids had never been in love, was so often so very alone. There were few people he even genuinely trusted, let alone someone he trusted enough to love.

"I love you too. Or that wouldn't have just happened." Harley assured him.

"Really?" Little boy voice.

"Really. And what just happened was fuckin' fantastic and I would like to do it many many times more. With you. Possibly forever."

"Oh. Good."

"We should probably shower." Harley yawned, dismissing the problem and snuggling closer into the arms wrapped around him.

"Yeah..."

"And blow out the candles..."

"Uh huh...."

The cadence of two breathing patterns filled the stillness and they slept, spent, loved and happy.


	7. Some Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comfort.

Mik had just felt lonely that day. Some days were all right, filled with things to do and think about, some seemed even too busy, cluttered with things, but today was empty. It stretched through the morning and the filtered afternoon light that teased him with its slow migration across the carpet. Every moment seemed to last a little to long and he knew that if he had to wait another minute to talk to another human being, he would crack wide open like a gibbering maniac.

That was why when the door opened, he might have reacted a little strongly.

"Omph." Is apparently the sound your 23 year old lover makes when you attempt to squeeze the life out of him.

And if Cyanide had had any type of normal day, he would have gone stiff with surprise, maybe softened up for a moment or two, before pushing Mik away, but today had not been a normal day.

Today, Vince, the other graduate assistant who worked with Cyanide, hadn't shown up for work. So Cya had been loaded down, grading papers until he thought his brain would melt. Today, he had cursed at grammer and confusing sentances and his dull red pencil. Today, he had missed lunch break entirely and spent the rest of the day listening to his growling stomah. But worst of all, today he had called Vince's house to see what the problem was. Today, he had learned that Vince wouldn't be back. Because Vince was to busy dying in a hospital bed. Of A.I.D.S.

So today when Mik reached the doorway intending to merely smother the younger man, he found himself being hugged back just as hard.

They stood for an eternity, just in front of the closed door, Cya's jacket a heap on the floor. Mik's strong arms wrapped around thin shoulders, his lips pressed against thick black hair, the smell of Head and Shoulders, Speed stick and the vague incense smell of Cya's cramped desk space clinging in his nostrils. Cya, in turn, clung to Mik's waist, burying his own face into the strong chest.

So close where they that Mik could feel the exact moment that Cya began to cry.


	8. I Wanna Be Your Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyanide bounces back.

Cyanide hated being dependant. Even if it was on his lover. And the past few weeks all he had done was rely on Mik's strength. But the worst had past now. Vince had been buried for nearly two weeks and it was time to attempt to get back to normal. Besides, this was just going to be fun.

He regarded himself in the full length mirror that hung on the bathroom door. Hells yah. He was hot shit. Black leather pants so tight there was no room for underwear, a thin gauzy black shirt that was easily see through and a spiked dog color. Zero gel, his hair free floated down, some of it grazing his shoulders. Thick thick black kohl graced his eyes.

"Enough of this." He scolded himself. He had to get the apartment ready.

***

Long long day. Mik sighed wearily as he trudged up the stairs. He'd had to meet with an art dealer nearly three hours away. The deal didn't go through and now he just wanted to go into the apartment and curl up in bed, waiting for Cyanide to drift in. The Latino had been coming home late with the double work load as they had yet to fill Vince's spot. Vince. Mik felt a tug at his heart, never had he seen his lover rendered so vulnerable and it was beginning to scare him.

So deep in thought that it took him nearly three seconds to realize that not only was the apartment completely dark, even though it was only four in the afternoon, but that soft silbant music was playing in the background.

A misty light turned on and fell over a shadowy figure, perched on a stool, singing softly with the music,

"So messed up/ I want you here/In my room." Cyanide sang softly, in a low caressing voice. Mik stared unbelievingly at him. "I want you here/Now we're gonna be/Face to face/And I'll lay right down/In my favorite place."

"Cya?" But the Latino was fully in the trance he had wove and taking the time pause in the music, he slithered to the floor, crawling on all fours, so that Mik could see every muscle rolling against each other, even in the dim light of the room.

"And now I wanna/Be your dog/Now I wanna/Be your dog" Reaching Mik's feet, he threw himself to the floor belly up and began to write, lifting up his hips and sliding hands suggestively over his shirt and the evident bulge in the leather pants. "Now I wanna/Be your dog. Well c'mon!'

The music faded out, but Cyanide stayed right where he was, heated eyes boring holes into Mikhael's forehead. The Russian dropped to floor, tossing jacket aside. In an instant, the limber younger body surged up to meet him and before long they were tussling on the floor, Mik working hard at the stiff buttons of the shirt.

"Rip it." Cya finally snarled and Mik rushed to comply, shredding the thing until he could trace the fine lines of his lover's chest without hinderance. With his toungue.

The floor was leaving uncomfortable burns on his forearms and without thinking, Mik stood, scooping Cya off the floor and carrying him into the bedroom. There was no protest from the quivering man in his arms. He dumped him without ceremony unto the bed and thrust himself between the wantonly spread legs. Long artist fingers mad quick work of the leather pants, tossing them aside. Cyanide sighed with relief as his erection was freed. With little preamble, Mik took it his mouth, humming the haunting tune softly. Under these ministrations, Cyanide wasn't quiet, thrashing in reminiscent of his recent dance.

Feeling that his lover was close, Mik stopped, standing up to shuck away the last of his clothes, all the while keeping searing eye contact with dilated brown.

"Tell me what you want."

"Fuck me." Cya moaned out without even a beat of hesitation.

"Since you asked nicely." The Russian leaned over to reach the coffee table, but a hand on his chest stopped him. A condom pressed against his chest. "Lube?"

Espresso cheeks reddened. Curious, Mik let his hand trailed down...and found his lover already wet.

"You prepared yourself for me?"

Embarrassment prepared to overwhelm the younger man, so Mik drew him into another heated kiss, making words useless. Instead, they spoke with their bodies. Together they shifted, moving with the ease of practice, giving Mik access to the tight wet heat of the younger man's flesh. Slowly, he pressed in and when they came flush together....there was that pause. The tiny little pause, that no matter how violent their coupling, they always made. It was the moment of complete togetherness. And then slowly, Mik began to pull out, before slamming back home again and careful angle. Long black nails raked his skin as he set a demanding pace that Cyanide easily kept. They were frenzied with frustrated passions, uncaring of the world around them. Screams ripped from Cya's throat as he came hard, Mik's hand wrapped around him, but the sound that came from Mik as he followed a minute later were subsonic. A deep low groan of complete fulfillment.


	9. Flash Photo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration.

Harley came with the high pitched keen that always signaled his completion. His body quacked and he fell back, boneless, to the mattress while his lover continued to pound into his body. Seven hard, long strokes later, the larger man pushed in deeper then before and shuddered to a halt. Before he allowed himself to fall, he eased gently out of the lithe body beneath him, removed the condom and tossed it into a nearby garbage. The he fell back into bed with the blond. The two clasped hands, but remained apart on the bed, their bodies mindful of the unusually warm day.

"Feeling anymore inspired?" The blond inquired without moving.

**

Harley had come home, loaded down with groceries. Usually it was Skids, who would awaken earlier on Saturday morning to shop for necessities like food and toilet paper. But Skids' was hard at work on a new project and for once, Harley decided to get everything himself.

The morning had been surprisingly warm for the middle of winter and that had made the task much more pleasant. Feeling a bit domestic, he even bought Windex, thinking he might be motivated enough to clean a window or at the very least, make Skids laugh by pretending that he might be motivated enough do so.

He whirled around the kitchen, putting groceries and singing to himself some 80s tune that had been playing softly in the store. Idly, he made plans for the day. There was a paper to be finished for Monday, but he could do that mostly tonight and tomorrow. It seemed a shame to waste such a nice day. Maybe if Skids was finished they could go out and do something...

On that thought, he pivoted on his heels and went to see how the new project was coming. The studio door was open, so he could slip in on cat feet just to peek over Skids' shoulders.

"Uh...." He said into the quiet. "It's blank."

Skids turned in surprise and flashed his boyfriend a small sad smile.

"Yeah, I'm stuck."

The painting was supposed to be for a contest in a few weeks, in honor of the late curator of a local gallery. The theme was Gay Pride and any artists of any age and media from the area could enter. It would be a great opportunity to get works seen by some important people and maybe even sell a piece.

"Do you need a little inspiration?"

Gratefully, Skids stood and opened his arms. They kissed deeply and Skids let his hands glide to the small of Harley's back.

"Any ideas?" The blonde asked, breathlessly.

"I think I might need a lot more inspiration." Skids told him earnestly.

***

Skids sat up slightly to fully enjoy the sight of his lover, spent and debauched against the white sheets. One arm over his stomach, the other next to him and holding tightly to Skids' hand. Pale skin was tinged with rose and his eyes were at half mast, his breathing slow.

"Don't move." Was the harsh command and within seconds there was a void where Skids had been.

A minute later and there was a dip in the bed and the feel of wet paint gliding across his skin. So deep was he in post-coital oblivion that he didn't protest, even as the brush tickled his sensitive stomach. He drifted off for a while, aware of a distant rustling sound and the feel of dry crackling paint on his belly and chest. A flash of light roused him somewhat, but the command came again,

"Don't move."

So he didn't and after a few more flashes the bed dipped again and he was cuddling against a warm body.

**

"Come on, Mik. You can leave it for now, no one's going to steal it." There was a pause and the Russian seemed almost about to move. Cyanide growled impatiently. "I'm going to see Skids' painting whether or not you come with me. And I'll bet he isn't lurking by his entry like a dog."

"You're a brat." Mik caved, trailing after the impatient Latino.

"I wouldn't have to be, if you did things the first time I asked you."

"It's a contest, Cya. You never know what people are going to rip off!"

"Come off it, Mik. There's no way......Holy shit."

There was a modest crowd gathered around the entry place that had been marked for Skids', but Mik and Cya, even standing a few feet away, had a fairly good view. A black and white photograph that was about six by five feet graced the wall. An almost life size photo of a man in repose. Standing out in color on the graceful gray shades of the body was a large purple triangle, outlined in a messy thick black line. Over the chest, next to a nipple was a red heart within which something was written in delicate calligraphy.

"Giovanni Dianglo's." Mik mouthed to himself. He was unable to take his eye's away from the nude photo of his friend and had the uncomfortable fear that he was starting to drool. He checked himself quickly, glancing at his lover out of the corner of his eye, but found that Cyanide was just as enchanted.

"How much do you think they're selling it for?" Cya said finally, licking his lips. "I think it would look good in the living room."

"What?!" Mk stared down at the dark haired man. "Are you insane?!"

A slender eyebrow lifted.

"It was a joke, Mik." The Russian subsided, relaxing slightly. "Actually, I have a better idea."

Cya raised on tiptoes and whispered into his boyfriend's ear. A grin spread over Mik's face.

"You are one devious man, Cyanide Torres."

"It's a passion."

"And you're mine."

And sometimes dark skin can still show a blush.

***

Skids' photo won second prize. First went to a sculpture of two woman in the Garden of Eden tying the snake into a knot. Mik's painting was an honorable mention, but he was to distracted by his and Cya's plan to care.

***

"I can't believe you got second!" Harley bounced as he fumbled for the key to the apartment. They had been out celebrating most of the night which had mostly been sitting in a coffee shop with some other artists, then moving to a bar for a few drinks. They were coming home buzzed from caffeine and alcohol.

"I wish I knew who bought the photo at least." Skids mused. "They sent a messenger to pick it up. I'd kinda like to know who's getting to see your naked body, besides me."

Harley shrugged, jamming the key into the lock.

"Yeah, it is a little weird knowing someone else is staring at me and we don't know who."

Skids put a hand on Harley's shoulder.

"You said it was okay if I sold it."

"It was. It is. It's just weird."

The door opened to a light filled apartment. Which was strange since neither of them ever left the lights on.

And one of the walls that had been formerly blank was now dominated with a fairly large photo/painting with the second prize ribbon still attached. An envelope was attached to the frame.

"Uhhh...okay. Officially the strangest thing that's happened to us in a long time. What'd they do? Break, enter and not steal?"

Skids plucked up the envelope and took out a short letter.

"Huh." He passed it to Harley.

"Guys, Thought you might like this back. Wanted to own it for a few minutes. -Cyanide and Mikhael. P.S. Your landlady oopened the door for us. She seems nice. Got any vacancy's?" Harley stared at the note a little longer. "Huh."

"Yeah. That was.....nice of them."

"There aren't any weird stains on it, are there?" They both scrutinized the painting, then glanced at each other, suddenly aware of the absurdity of the whole situation.

"Come on. Let's go to bed. We'll move it to your studio tomorrow." Skids suggested.

"Mmmm. Bed."

For once, they went to sleep pretty much right away, cuddling underneath the sheets.

***

Across town, Mik threw his undershirt into the hamper and switched off the lamp. Cya watched him slide into bed, their eyes adjusting to the dark.

"We did a good thing." Mik said softly. "Right?"

"Yeah."

There was the usual tussle for blankets until they found a reasonable compromise. Just as Cya was drifting to sleep, a rumble shifted through the chest he had laid his head on.

"You don't think they'll notice the stains, right?"


	10. Linear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cya burns, Mik repents, and there is healing.

He rushed into the hospital doors, dodging snotty children and blood soaked bandaged victims. The ER held nothing for him, the pounding in his ears and blood led him totally out of it's reach. Mikhael's voice had sounded so fuckin' desperate, like nothing he had ever heard before.

And he can't remember why. Just has this raw desperate need to get to room 506. Fifth floor, fifth floor, fifth floor, damn slow elevator, fifth floor, fifth floor, come on you stupid fuckin' thing, move! And ding. And sixth door on the right, sixth door on the right and why can't he just remember.

He almost wants to start guessing to jog his memory, but all he can see are flashes of his room as he left it minutes ago, a phone hanging off the hook, music blasting, clothes asunder and some thing else... it nags. Left the front door open, shit, he'd catch hell for that later.

Outside, Skids is standing and talking to a nurse for all the world like a kicked puppy. Thank god, he's all right, Cya sighs to himself. Why did I think he wouldn't be? Didn't Mik say.....but again, there is no memory. Nothing to supply for the words, but only the raw aching tone.

The room calls to him again, dragging him inside, the numbers weaving in front of his eyes and draws him in. His way is blocked. Harley coming out, face drawn and gray. Skids throws an arm around him, taking him out of the way of the door. Harley burrows into Skids' arms like he belongs there, seeks refuge in the strength and begins to sob. They cry together. Cya wants to join, but feels that same deep ache that always pulls him from them in moments like these. He cannot share these emotional waves, can't push his blocks aside even when shit like this hits the fan.

Instead, he turns from them and barrels, finally, into the room and whatever it holds. There curtain around the bed and he can hear the hum of machinery behind it like some hideous experiment. A doctor is retreating behind it and sitting an uncomfortable looking hospital chair is Mikhael. The big Russian is leaned over, elbows on his knees and his head buried in wide hands. He looks up when Cyanide comes close, but his eyes are too blurred with tears to see properly.

"You stupid fuck." He's muttering, head in hands again. "It was just a stupid little fight. Oh, God. Damnit, damnit. I love you. You're my bitchy princess. Tough as nails. Damnit. Damnit. You don't *do* things like this."

And it sounds like Latin for all the sense it makes. Harley is safe outside and as far as Cya knew Mik didn't even condescend to talk with women, let alone call one 'princess'. And why, if Harley and Skids were safe, was he standing here? Mik's voice had been devastated. Bruised and bloody. He wanted Cyanide there, needed him. For what? To listen to this crazed rambling about a person, Cya hadn't even known existed?

Confusion and a dull thud pounded in his head, looked for a place to sit down because he was too confused to understand this standing up. Nothing. Gracelessly, he slid to the floor besides Mik's head and just tried to think. It was hard. Hard to concentrate because Mik was sobbing next to him and Dios! he hurt from running here, didn't realize how much. And there was just this god-awful smell....

Smelled like burnt beef and what the fuck ward was he in? Room 506, 506, 506, fifth floor....fifth floor and hadn't he done two hours of obligatory community service here....fifth floor fifth floor....what was he missing....

That stench! Didn't somebody have some deodorant? Smelled worse then beef charcoal style. And that strong olfactory memory calls up the time he'd hair sprayed his hand and lit the match on it, then let it burn a little to long.

Flesh.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

Burnt flesh.

Fifth floor.

ICU.

Trauma ward.

And Mik is still sobbing and speaking in tongues about his princess....his bitchy princess.

And in his mind, Cya remember the flash of light, the searing pain that made him drop the phone and rush to his car. Never made it to the damn thing. Never even got close.

"My bitchy princess."

Say it Mik.

"My love."

Say it.

"You're to good for this. If I didn't mean the things I said..."

Oh, Dios, don't say it. Don't make this true.

"I don't understand this."

Say it.

"You know all about those things. You knew you shouldn't pick up the phone."

Please, please don't say it. And his hands starting to sting like a thousand angry bees worming their way under his skin.

"My princess."

SAY IT!

"I didn't get to say I'm sorry, but I am. Just wake up for me, please, babe. Open your eyes."

Mik, baby, please. He rises from the floor and passes his weeping.....Mik. And pulls back the curtain. Stares dispassionately down at the body hooked to tubes and machinery. Feel Mik getting up behind him, scooting the chair closer. Trying to find a place not covered, so he can lay down a comforting hand.

Please, babe. Just say it. Make this real.

"Wake up, you stubborn Latino punk! Torres....Cyanide...please. Twitch a finger or something. Let these bastards know you're still kicking around. Please, at least wake up to tell me to fuck off."

The pull back is a rush, but then he's trapped and his eyes fly open, there's a goddamn tube down his throat and its' choking him nearly to death. Gags and wheezes and Dios, why can't he see?!

"Please, Mr. Torres, lay down." A voice is booming to his right. "If you'll hold on just a minute...." The cool feel of injection and the world slides away again, but not like before. Because he remembers the way of things now and before he entirely lets go, he remembers to feel like a complete shit.

**Three weeks earlier**

"All I'm saying is that we should just go out once and a while! I can't live like this!"

"We go out all the time! It's one damn night to stay in and be with each other..."

"We're with each other all the time! I'm bored, damn it!"

The fight was one that they'd begun many times. Like most relationships, they had their snags. Things that always brought them to a boiling point. After nearly two years of it, they had learned to avoid the sore spots, but they both had a bit of masochist in them that would bring them around to poke and prod at the aches until they came to screams. Sometimes they would back down. When they didn't, it turned into a full knockdown drag out fight that usually ended in one of them leaving or both of them falling onto the bed for some very satisfactory makeup sex.

But this was not destined to be one of those fights. It had at last come to that first awful place. That first wound that dug the deepest and brought out the rawest part of them. Perhaps, if either of them had been in a better mood it wouldn't have happened or even, if one of them had been slightly more sober. Like the Titanic there were a million if only's in this fight.

But the truth of the matter was, Cyanide was winding down the days of graduate work and he was waiting to here from several prestigious universities about acceptance of his application for doctoral programs. Mikhael had sprained his wrist the week before falling down a flight of stairs. He couldn't paint until it improved and had been chugging painkillers to boot. Between the two of them, they were completely anxious. They shared a bottle of vodka between them in order to lighten spirits, but wound up over indulging until Cya actually felt good again and suggested going out. Neither of them yet drunk enough to be incoherent, but tipsy enough to anger easily. One old tired fight between them that was rekindled.

It degenerated quickly.

"You're so boring!"

"I am not boring! You're to shallow to care about the things, I like. You're always thinking about yourself."

"Me?! All you do is sit here all day and contemplate your navel while you churn out that shit you call 'art'. At least I'm doing something with my life!"

"So why are you living with me?! Mooching until something better comes around? Maybe you really are just a kept boy." And there's malice in that bite.

"Fuck you, Mikhael! I work hard everyday and come home and listen to your bullshit about how tough it is to create! You're a self involved prick who uses his money for an excuse not to live!"

"Ah! The truth comes out! Is that what you really think of me?!"

"Yes!" No. Of course it isn't, but they're really going at it now and saying things that have only been thought before, in darkest moments better left unexamined.

"Well, I think you're an arrogant little flaming shit whose afraid of his own goddamn HOMOSEXUAL shadow! You hate me so much then why the hell do you come back here every night?! Why the fuck did you move in in the first place?!" We've crossed the line this time. Cut to deep to heal any type of quick.

"Good point." And that's worse then the screaming because it's flat and cold.

No more words are spoken as the younger man turns on his heels and gathers a change of clothes into a bag. It's only as he reaches the door that Mik manages to find his voice,

"Don't....don't leave. I'm"

"Save it." Comes the quick acerbic answer. "It's not true, yet."

The door slams hard behind him, before Mik realizes that for once, Cyanide was smarter then him in an emotional situation. He isn't sorry. Yet.

But he knows, even as he stews in his temporarily righteous anger that he will be. Maybe sorrier then he's been in a very long time.

They spend nearly two weeks without talking though Mik knows exactly where Cyanide has gone because he has to foward the letters that start to pour in to the Torres' household. Letters from universities all over the country and nearly makes him cry when he notices the far away return adresses on some of them. Didn't realize that Cya had been ready to leave anyway. Should have known. Wonders if the fight was picked on purpose, so that the Latino could leave with no strings attached.

On the other end, Cyanide opened each white envelope with trembling hands and felt detachedly melancholy as acceptances rained down like snowflakes. Everywhere he wanted to go and scholarship money to take him there. Far away from memories and the place that has always been his home. The words that they threw at each other stick fresh in his mind, constricting him. Every time he moves to fast they blur at him and bite at his flesh afresh.

Every ring of the phone makes him twitchy. He keeps expecting Mikhael to call. Doesn't know what to he will say if he does. Or what he'd be calling for... to apologize? to ask him to come and take his things home? Is that even possible? They have shared an apartment for a year and several months, there really isn't anything that isn't actually 'theirs', except for maybe his drums and Mik's artwork....

Art. And he does think a lot of Mik's work is pretentious bullshit. The worst part of it all was the things that were said were so damn close to the truth, they almost were the truth. Except for the anger that had propelled them forth.

He had to make some type of decision soon, that much was clear. It was a daily struggle to try and call Mik himself, but he didn't know what to say. I'm sorry sounded to pathetic and like he expected only to be forgiven and taken home again. What he wanted was for this to go away for the words to be unsaid. For it to be a month ago when they were lying in bed and laughing at Mik's valiant attempt to get it up for the sixth time in one evening.

He doesn't know what he wants for the present. What they need to do is sit down and talk, but neither of them is tremendously good at that. There needs to be some sort of compromise, the rebuilding of their foundation. Because...

Because Cyanide hates this awful feeling of loneliness that drags him right back to the time before he met Mik. To mere minutes before he entered the club where the big Russian would obligingly meet and subsequently, take Cyanide into his heart and home.

He can remember the cold chill of the night like it was yesterday and tries to shake the terrible loneliness that returns in waves as he thinks back on all the nights of endless driving just for something to do. He had felt so incomplete and Mik had made him almost whole. They worked at filling each other.

And now, there was only this huge gapping hole that seemed larger then before. It had a shape now and a name. It made Cyanide want to weep, but he could not. There was no one to wipe away his tears and mutter rude pet names into his hair. No one who would attempt to get in a grope while he stroked his back. No one to make it all better.

So it was no surprise that he ran to answer the phone that afternoon, despite the volatile chemicals he held in one hand. Juggled the phone between his ear and shoulder, the test tubes in thick rubber gloves.

"Cyanide. I miss you."

And damnit it threw him off guard. His eyes blurred over beneath goggles.

"Mik..."

Poured the wrong damn thing in. Drops the phone. And the room goes black.

**Present**

Mik walked out of room 506 looking a lot like he had just gotten worked over with a 2x4, starved himself for several days and forgotten to sleep for at least a month. He nearly collapsed into the waiting arms of Harley and Skids. The two young men had awaited his eventual breakdown and settled him into a comfortable chair. Skids pushed a cup of tea into one hand, Harley a reasonable facsimile of food from the cafeteria into the other. Then they made sure he ate and drank it all.

"He's going to be okay." Mik said finally. "Now that he's awake, the doctor's can fix him."

"He'll be good as new in no time!" Skids told him cheerily. "Now, lean back and take a nap. Cya needs you to be rested up."

"He must hate me." Mik muttered. "If I hadn't called right then....that stupid fight...the things I said..."

"Shhh. Sleep now. There's plenty of time to feel guilty later." Harley moved to one side and covered him with a stolen fuzzy blue blanket.

The Russian drifted off almost immediately. As soon as he emitted a soft snore, Harley sighed with relief and climbed into Skids lap. Mik had been in the hospital for the last three days, living off of God only knew what and had finally called them this morning. Spilled the whole story into a payphone, barely restraining himself from tears.

They were trying their best to be helpful. It was hard to watch the other couple suffer. Mik and Cya had become important friends to Skids and Harley over the last year, it sometimes seemed that they could not remember a time when they hadn't known the two aggressive males. And in that time, there had been a sort of awe on Skids' and Harley's part. Mik and Cya were a real couple. They had met, fell in love, fought, fucked and lived every day in detail. They stayed together through hard times and managed to work around each other.

To Skids and Harley, that was akin to a miracle. Their own relationship was natural to them as water, knowing each other since they were still in grade school had formed them into a very different sort of couple. Younger and more naive, they had never truly been without each other and the sudden thought that it was possible to loose one another wasn't easy to struggle with.

If Mik and Cya could break up, what would stop it from happening to them? If Cyanide could die, what stopped Death from coming to them?

The young men clung to each other in fear and tried to console each other with gentle caresses and whispered promises while Mik slumbered on next to them.

But they could not shake the image of Cyanide, only a corridor away, wrapped in bandages and breathing through a tube, monitors chattering away. It was a nightmare vision that was to real and frightening, made worse by the luminescent white of the hospital walls.


End file.
